


Trees

by displacedhobbit



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Depression, Dis is amazing and I really should write her more often, Fili is an awesome big bro, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Thorin is clueless, after BotFA I felt like this needed an additional chapter...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/displacedhobbit/pseuds/displacedhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Losing loved ones is the hardest thing of all, but there are ways to abate the grief, ways to let the sadness ebb away. Two-parter about loss in the line of Durin, with a bonus third chapter for Bilbo and his acorn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cottonwood

**Author's Note:**

> Have some Durin family feels! This is not set in my Greater than Gold universe and is entirely separate from that work. I just had this plot stuck in my head and I needed to get it out! There will be two chapters to this story (and I’m sure some of your more astute darlings will know what happens in the next one).
> 
> Warnings: Canonical character death, depression. Unbetaed writing (ooooop).

It has been six days since their father died.

Six days since they were playing in the garden as the sun began to set, eagerly awaiting the evening horn blast that would signify their father’s return from the mines. Six days since they had instead heard a deafening explosion, one that rumbled through the very ground and collapsed dozens of houses closer to the mines. Six days since he’d been forced to tackle his little brother in the streets as he tried to rush toward the mines, dragged him back home to their horror-stricken mother. Six days since the knock on the door that had the foreman handing his mother a small bag of coin and offering his condolences. Six days since the three of them had huddled together on the floor, grasping at one another and sobbing, because their father was gone, gone, gone.

His uncle Thorin had arrived with great haste the following morning, clearly worried for his sister and her sons, but unable to offer them any real comfort. It was not for a lack of trying – his Uncle did care; really, truly cared – but emotions were not his strong front – battles were. He and Fili had grown rather close over the last few years, once Thorin had begun training him as his heir. In truth, he had become a bit fonder of his uncle than his father, though his heart ached deeply at the loss of the man who’d read him to sleep and taught him how to walk.

Kili was much, much closer to their father than he had ever been. On days that Thorin would take Fili out for trainings and lessons, Kili spent all of his time with their father, romping through the woods, learning the bow that their grandfather on their father’s side had been so adept at using. Their father was the only one who Kili allowed to braid his hair or sing him to sleep. For all of the loss and ache that Fili felt, he knew his brother must feel it ten times over.

His mother stayed strong, though her eyes were constantly rimmed with red and her sadness was palpable, and Fili thought he had done a spectacular job of pulling himself together, of distracting himself with training with his uncle to be a prince of a lost kingdom, but in the past six days, Kili, his sweet, loving little Kili, had grown completely despondent.

Six days ago, when after hours of crying, their mother finally tucked them into their bed with soft kisses and fiercely whispered endearments, and Kili had barely moved, eaten, or slept since. He’d not spoken a word since the foreman’s visit, not even a broken one hidden in a sob. All he’d done is lie there, looking to the rest of the world like a broken doll. No amount of gentle coaxing from their mother, or stern words from their uncle, or even his own pleas had been able to rouse him. Kili had stayed still and silent as stone, and he was starting to think he might loose his brother, too.

He was scared down to his core. He’d never truly realized how fragile life really was, not until his father had been ripped away from him in an accident caused by someone else’s carelessness, not until his little brother started slipping away from him. He knew he needed to do something, fast, for Kili grew paler and slimmer with each passing day.

“Won’t you try and get your brother up today, Fili?” his mother asked quietly from across him at the table. They had only just finished eating breakfast, the day had only just begun, yet he was struck by how worn and lost his mother looked. “And try to make him eat something?”

“Yes, mum,” he replied as he stood. He strode across the room and dropped a chin to his mother’s shoulder before wrapping her in a warm hug from behind and pressing a kiss to her cheek. He and his brother had always been so affectionate with their family, even with their uncle Thorin if he managed to not push them away. His gesture pulled a small-but-genuine smile across his mother’s face, one that warmed his heart slightly as he quickly fixed a small plate for his brother, knowing full well that the boy wouldn’t eat any of it, but determined to try anyway.

“G’morning, Kee,” he greets quietly as he reenters the bedroom he shares with his brother. “Mum really wants you to eat today. She’s worried about you.”

Kili’s eyes just stare listlessly ahead. With a sigh, he sets the plate on the bedside table and crosses his legs to sit on the floor facing his little brother.

“I’m worried about you, too. Even Uncle is,” he admits. “You’re scaring me.”

Kili only blinks. Fili can’t help the heavy sigh that escapes him. It’s only been six days, yet he feels like he’s aged so much. His eyes rove across his brother’s face, hoping for just the tiniest twitch or indication that he’s even listening, and finds none. He does, however, note the disheveled brain that sits just above his ear, and thinks that he would feel a little bit better if he could at least make the lad look a bit more presentable.

When he reaches for the braid, Kili jumps back like he’s been burned.

It’s obvious from the pain that crosses his face that his muscles hurt from such a sudden movement after so much stillness, and he goes incredibly pale to the point that Fili is terribly afraid he will faint, but he can’t help the tiny bit of joy that claws it’s way up his throat at the fact that he’s simply reacted to something.

“No,” Kili croaks out, a battered and broken sound, but it’s a sound and it makes the joy Fili feels double.

“I just thought you might feel better if you get a little cleaned up,” he explained, trying to decide the best course of action for coaxing his brother out of looking like a scared, cornered animal.

Kili relaxes just the tiniest bit, and he sees just how tired the boy looks. “Da does my braids.”

Fili’s heart breaks just a bit more at the broken-sounding admission. It was true, he knew it was; their father did Kili’s braids every morning, a special, swirly-looking braid that not even their mother knew how to craft; a special, swirly-looking braid that had always adorned their father’s golden hair.

“An’ now he’s never gonna do them again, is he?” his brother asks softly, voice holding the tiniest bit of hope that Fili will tell him that this was all a bad dream, that their father is waiting for them in the kitchen like he does every morning, that everything is okay.

“Oh, Kili,” he murmurs softly. He rises up to his knees to reach for his brother, brushes his hand along the smooth skin of his cheek before tucking the mussed braid behind his ear.

The second Kili starts to cry he’s climbing up on the bed at breakneck speed to gather him up in his arms. The contact seems to break the dam that has formed around his emotions, and suddenly Kili is wailing and screaming and sobbing against him. Their mother rushes in, with Thorin hot on her heels, concern clear on both of their faces. He looks up in time to see the relief flit across his mother’s face as she rushes to their bed and gathers both of her sons into her arms.

For a long while there’s nothing more than tears and sobs and halfhearted punches against his chest. When Kili calms, he’s suddenly terrified that the boy will slip back into his unresponsive state, but he asks if he can have a wash instead. Thorin immediately rushes off to draw the bath, while Fili and their mother carefully pull the braids free from his hair. Kili doesn’t protest, not once, but once both of the braids are pulled free he presses his face to Fili’s throat and releases a shuddering breath.

He wishes he knew how to help, wishes he knew how to make this better, but there’s nothing. There is not a thing in this world that can bring their father back, and he knows it. They all know it.

And it hurts.

Kili looks better after he bathes but still refuses to eat. It is a small victory to Fili that his little brother immediately curls up against his chest and falls into a fitful sleep.

When Fili finally drifts off, he dreams of forests and laughter and his father twirling special braids into his hair.

\-----

Morning comes, damp and bleak, and Dis and Thorin work together to coax her sons to eat. They are both timid and quiet this day; today is the day of the memorial, when their father will be symbolically laid to rest among the stone of the mountain. Her own heart is heavy with grief; she has lost so, so much. Yet, she holds on to the existence of her eldest brother and her sons like a lifeline. They are her greatest treasure now.

She is unsurprised when Kili refuses to step inside the mountain tomb. The lad has never much liked being underneath the mountain, has always fears the crushing power of the stone, and having lost his father in such a collapse she cannot blame him. Thorin, showing a rare level of patience for her younglings, sits outside with him while she and Fili attend the service.

It is a sad affair. In all, thirteen dwarrows were lost in the explosion, all because of the mistake of one of them, one who lit a fuse that shouldn’t have been lit. Fili keeps his arm looped in hers, stays pressed close to her side, and only once buries his face in her hair to hide his tears. She is proud of her eldest, so calm and collected like her brother, yet so thoughtful and loving like her One. He will make a great king to Erebor one day, she thinks, if in name only.

When they leave, she finds Kili tucked tightly against his uncle’s side, a rare show of affection gracing her brother’s features as he cards a battle-worn hand through the lad’s unbraided hair. She hopes he will stay around for a while; he often visits for months and then leaves for months, and her boys have always enjoyed his company tremendously. She thinks they would do well to have a strong figure in their lives now, and she does not trust herself to do the job.

“I don’t think Da would like to be buried in there,” Kili muses quietly once they’ve all reunited.

She has to agree with him. He had always preferred the fresh air and the forest, had loved to go out on a hunt instead of toiling in the mines, had only worked in the mines out of necessity in the first place, but there was no body left for her to bury, and she supposed the mountain would have to suffice.

“Da loves the trees,” Kili continues absently, sightless eyes staring off into the distance until Thorin urges him up to return home.

The night at their home is somber and quiet, and if she crawls into bed with her sons for the night Thorin doesn’t comment.

\-----

“Kili, look!” Fili exclaims as he barrels back into their small home the next morning, face split in a wide smile and cheeks flushed with excitement.

Kili turns from where he had been picking at his breakfast to regard his brother with tired, albeit curious, eyes. Fili looked positively triumphant as he drops a fairly large black seed onto the table. “What is it?” the youngest asked, clearly intrigued.

“It’s a cottonwood tree seed,” he explained. “Uncle Thorin took me out in the woods this morning and I found it.”

Said uncle chose that moment to come back into the house, flashing the family a small, warm smile as he did. He ducked his head sheepishly at the beaming smile Dis flashed at him, clearly pleased that her boys were in higher spirits.

“That’s Da’s favorite,” Kili breathes as he reaches for the seed. “We use to climb ‘em all the time to get a better view for hunting.”

“I thought we could plant it in the garden,” Fili explained, his tone going soft and taking on a slight tone of reverence at the wide-eyed gaze Kili was giving him. “And then we could have a little piece of Da forever, yeah?”

Kili was out of his seat faster than he’d moved in a week. “Mum can we?” he asked, turning pleading brown eyes to her. “Please?”

She bends to press a kiss atop both of their heads. “Of course, my sweetings.” She waves a hand toward the door. “Your uncle will help you, I’m sure of it. I’ll be out in a bit once I get your breakfast put away.”

Both of the lads rushed off after their uncle to the garden, small smiles dancing across their faces. It wasn’t true happiness, not yet, not when the hurt was far too fresh, but it was a step in the right direction. Seeing Kili just out of bed was more than enough to warm her heart. She was so incredibly proud of her eldest son, sweet, thoughtful Fili who had gone out of his way and came up with a perfect way to perk his brother up, to perk them all up.

When the lads come in a while later, Thorin trailing at their heels, there are genuine smiles on both of their faces. Her brother herds them in to wash up, as they seem to have gotten dirt all over themselves. Kili actually eats something, and her heart lightens immensely. She may have lost her One, and she knows she will mourn him every single day, but she still has her precious boys.

They’ll be enough.

\-----

“Kili! Come on,” she calls, exasperated. “You need to wash up for dinner, you little mongrel!”

“He’s in the garden,” Fili supplies helpfully. “I’ll fetch him if you want.”

“No, no, dear heart. I’ll get him,” she replies, patting him on the shoulder as she passes. “Set a place for your uncle, will you? He’s due back any day now.”

“Yes, mum,” he calls after her before getting to his chores.

She finds Kili exactly where she expects to, perched on one of the low branches of the cottonwood tree in the far corner of their garden, diligently sharpening some arrowheads, chattering away to his Da as he works. In the ten years since the father of her son’s death, the tree has grown into an impressive specimen, and both of her boys spend a fair amount of time under its branches. She does too, if she’s honest with herself.

“There you are, my little sweeting,” she calls, pleased at the warm smile her endearment pulls out of him. “You’ll miss your supper if you stay out here much longer.”

He put the arrowheads he’s working on into a leather satchel before dropping them down to the ground. With a rather elaborate spin, he jumps down from the branch with a bright smile and a squeal of delight.

“Don’t you scare me like that, child!” she scolds, though she’s laughing lightly at his antics. For too long, she had to watch her son act like a shell of himself. It had taken Kili a long time to accept to death of his father, to move past the grief, to find his own happiness again.

“Sorry, mum, he murmurs with an unapologetic smile as he throws an arm around her shoulder and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Love you.”

“And I you, you mangy little rascal,” she murmurs as she ruffles a hand through his unbraided hair. “Go and wash up lad; your uncle should be back soon with loads of stories about that old wizard he’s gone to visit.”

He bounds into the house to do as he’s been asked, and she takes the last few steps toward the tree and presses her palm against it. Her eyes mist over a little bit as her thoughts fill with her late husband. The tree serves as a beautiful memorial for him, one that all of them are able to take comfort in whenever they need it, and she is immensely grateful for the thoughtful gesture of her eldest son so many years ago. Long arms wrap around her from behind, and she turns to see the smiling face of her youngest.

“This is my favorite place,” he admits. “I can feel Da here. It makes me feel better.”

She presses a kiss against his cheek. “Me too,” she confesses, taking a bit of comfort in the warm embrace.

“Come on,” he urges after a moment, tugging his mother back with him. “I heard uncle speaking with Fili when I went inside.”

“Yes, yes,” she replied quickly as she wiped at her eyes. “I might need to send you to market to fetch another barrel of ale, depending on how merry your uncle is feeling.”

Kili laughs lightly as he links his arm with his mother’s and leads her into the house.

She knows that she has lost so much to get to where she is now – her home, her youngest brother, her father and grandfather, her husband – but she has two beautiful, sweet wonderful boys as consolation, and she wouldn’t trade a second with them for all of the gold in the world.

They’ll be enough. They’ve always been enough.


	2. White Ash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN – Have some Durin family feels! This is not set in my Greater than Gold universe and is entirely separate from that work. I just had this plot stuck in my head and I needed to get it out! There will be two chapters to this story (and I’m sure some of your more astute darlings will know what happens in the next one).
> 
> Follow me on tumblr (displacedhobbit) if you're bored and like to be spammed with hot dwarves.
> 
> I still own nothing. Enjoy!
> 
> Warnings: Canonical character death, depression, mild gore. BATTLE OF THE FIVE ARMIES FEELS AHEAD. Unbetaed writing (ooooop).

As soon as the ravens arrive, she knows.

The message simply read, “Erebor is reclaimed. Expect a caravan shortly for those wishing to return” in Balin’s neat script. No words of triumph from her brother. No words of reassurance of their safety from her first-born. No words of enthusiasm or joy from her youngest.

She knows that at least one of the three dwarrows she sent off to Erebor won’t return with the caravan. She knows, deep in her heart, that were they all okay, they would have reached out to her, they would have assured her. With no such assurances, no such comforts, she finds the dread swelling up in her. She tries, again and again, to quell it down, with little success.

For weeks, she anxiously awaits the caravans, wondering which of her kin will have come back to retrieve her. Much to her dismay, she finds herself ranking them, trying to determine which one of them it would least hurt to loose. Her comparisons begin to consume all of her thoughts.

She thinks she might be loosing her mind. Idly, she wonders if this was how her grandfather had felt so long ago when he succumbed to the Gold Sickness. She could think of nothing else.

Thorin, she thinks, would be easiest. He was old, had lived the prime of his life, and had already experienced the world and the comforts of living in Erebor. But he was her brother, her eldest brother and had practically raised her after the dragon had usurped them from their home. He had taught her so much over the years, had helped her raise her own sons, and had been a presence and a constant throughout her entire tumultuous life. No, she could not bear to be without him.

Fili then, perhaps. As her eldest son he has had more of a chance to experience the world, has been burdened with such hardships that no lad should ever have to bear. Death could be a release for him, a gift, a freedom from the meager life she’d been able to provide. But her was her first born, her sweet, responsible, generous Fili. He’d been an invaluable addition to her life from the very first breath he’d ever drawn, a living reminder of her One with his golden hair and good-natured personality. He was their Heir to all of Erebor, had been trained his entire life to take over the throne, and in death that burden would fall to her youngest instead. No, she needed him to keep them all strong, to lead them to a glorious new future.

So it should be Kili. He was the spare, after all, the second son, it was expected of him to give his life in favor of his King and Heir if necessary. Just as Fili had been bred to become king, Kili had been trained in combat, to defend, to sacrifice. But he was her Kili, her sweet little boy who always greeted her with hugs and kisses and smiled so brightly that he chased all of her dark thoughts away. He was young, too young for such a quest. She shouldn’t have even let him go; she only had because he’d insisted he was ready, and Thorin had agreed. No, she could not be without her sweet baby boy.

It had to be Thorin. No, Fili. No, no, no; it had to be Kili.

She agonizes, over and over again, trying to decide who she could bear not being there to greet her once the caravans arrive, but she can never decide on one. There is none of the three she prefers over the other, none of the three she can shoulder the thought of living without.

When the caravans finally arrive, she’s sitting under the large cottonwood tree in their garden, the one her boys had planted not so long ago in memory of their father. She sees the tops of them over the fence as they pass by, but after weeks of anxiety and days of not sleeping, she can’t bring herself to go out to meet them. She can’t bring herself to go and see who isn’t waiting for her.

They’ll come for her soon enough. They’ll come and she’ll know whom she has to return to the stone.

In the end, the one who comes for her is the last she expects.

Dwalin pushes the rear door to her tiny house open, looking very much like a scared kitten, and not at all like the great warrior she knows him to be. He crosses the garden in silence, head bowed as he comes to sit next to her, leaned back against the tree.

“Milady,” he greets quietly. She almost winces; he hasn’t used a title on her for years. He looks older and worn; like he has aged a hundred years in the months they have been gone. The tiny glimmer of hope that she’d held on to that she’d been worried over nothing, that everyone was fine and safe and waiting for her, vanishes entirely.

“Who, Dwalin?” he asks, just as quietly, cutting straight to the chase, needing to know. “Who didn’t make it to Erebor?”

“We all made it,” he explains, “and the dragon was slain. But, after…” He trails off, studies the knuckle-dusters on his hands. “There was a great battle. The Battle of the Five Armies, they’re calling it. Dwarrows, elves, men, orcs, and goblins, all come to stake their claim in Erebor.”

She sucks in a tight breath. She had not agreed to send her sons off to battle, not to war. Her sweet, young sons, who had never seen such a thing, had never needed to see such a thing. Surely Thorin wouldn’t have made them fight. Surely he sent them somewhere safe.

Dwalin releases a shuddering breath as his hands drop limply to the ground. “Thorin fell defending his kingdom.”

She chokes out a sob, one that she quickly stifles with her hand to mute it. So, it was Thorin. Her eldest brother was no more, had died to reclaim their home that had been taken from them so long ago.

She feels Dwalin grasp her hand a squeeze it tightly, hears him call her name, asking her to look at him. When she does, she sees his eyes are full of sorrow and anguish. There’s more, they’re saying, she realizes with a start. When he speaks again, it is only in a whisper, but she hears it as though someone is screaming in her ear.

“Your boys, Dis,” he chokes out. “They fell defending him.”

Her vision whites out. No. No. No! In all of her agonizing, in all of her worrying she never once thought, never could have imagined losing all three of them. Her passionate, fierce eldest brother, her gentle, caring eldest son, her sweet, loving youngest…no. There must be a mistake. It must be a joke, some cruel, thoughtless joke being played on her by the Maker. She has lost so, so much. She cannot loose them too.

She doesn’t know if she’s breathing, doesn’t know what is happening. Distantly she hears someone screaming as if they’re broken, sobbing openly. Her hands are throbbing and she feels sick.

The whiteness sharply turns black and she knows everything and nothing all at once.

\-----

You volunteered to do this, he reminds himself as he watches her face crumple with the realization. You said you would tell her.

The grief in his heart is still fresh and heavy. He and Thorin had grown up together, had faced everything together. It had not been an easy burden to bear. But to see Fili succumb to his wounds, to find Kili broken and alone on the battlefield, young boys he had grown to love and cherish like they were his own, had been too much.

Her first sob escapes with a broken scream, and he hates that he has been the one to wrench it out of her. In a matter of seconds she is completely consumed with her grief, her sobs mixed with screamed curses in Khuzdul as her hands ball into fists and start hammering against his chest. He grabs her and pulls her close, squeezes her as tightly to his chest as he dares while she cries.

His own tears start falling into her hair but he can’t bring himself to care.

\-----

He watched, a dim sort of pride filling him as the eagles dispelled the rest of the orcs and goblins. They had won. Erebor was theirs. Surely all of this trouble would have broken Thorin from his gold-sickness, would have shown them that the bountiful wealth of Erebor could be easily spread with Laketown and Mirkwood.

Thorin.

He knew his old friend had been wounded, had seen Beorn carry him back to the safety of the mountain. He needed to find him, needed to see him well. He trusted that the healers Dain had brought would help his King to the greatest of their ability, but he still needed to know. Thorin had to survive. After all they had been through to return his kingdom to him, he simply had to live to see it done.

They had done it! They had reclaimed their home. They were home. He allowed himself a moment of joy and elation as he watched the sky, small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re hurt, laddie, we need to get you back to the mountain,” he heard his brother pleading with someone behind him. All the joy he had been feeling was quickly sucked away when he turned and saw Fili, his Prince, slightly hunched forward, hand gripping his torso, stained with blood.

“No,” he murmured, struggling weakly to pull from Balin’s grip. “I have to find Kee. We got separated! I told him I wouldn’t leave him,” he gasps out. “Please; I have to find him.”

“I’ll find him, lad,” he offers up, and the youth turns startled, desperate eyes to him. “You go and get some rest; I’ll find him and bring him to you.”

Fili seems to fold in on himself as he relaxes into his brother’s grip. “Please,” he murmurs out once more.

It takes him hours to find the youngest member of their company, even after he enlists the help of Bofur and Nori. He wouldn’t have noticed him at all, had he not tripped over the lad’s bow, the bow that Kili had so lovingly crafted under his own supervision.

He wishes he hadn’t. He wishes it had been anyone else who had found the lad, because he knows he’ll never get the image out of his head.

“No,” he whispers as he sinks to his knees next to where the boy lies facedown and trampled into the mud, blood matting his dark hair and staining his armor. With shaking hands, he pulls him up, desperately willing the lad to still be alive. All hope leaves him when he sees the boy’s sightless eyes, glassed over and no longer shining with their usual mirth. He brushes a hand along the lad’s too-cold cheek, smoothing away the mix of mud and blood that has caked there.

He gathers Kili close, cradles him against his chest. His own sobs come fast and unbidden. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. If they’d lost anyone it shouldn’t have been one of the lads. Not Kili. Anyone but Kili. It should have been him, someone who had lived a lifetime, not their youngest. Not their heart.

They haven’t won anything at all.

They’ve lost.

\-----

He wakes with a start to find Dis’ red-rimmed eyes watching him. He gathers that he must have fallen asleep in the armchair in their sitting room, some time after Dis had calmed and he’d managed to get her into bed for some rest. He shivers, waiting for the last of that dream – no, memory – dissipate from his thoughts, though he knows it will never go completely.

He can’t forget the emptiness in Kili’s eyes, can’t forget the small, sad smile that tugged at Fili’s lips as he gasped his last breaths to be with his brother, can’t forget the way that Thorin had practically howled with loss when Balin had explained to him exactly why he could not see his sister-sons one last time.

“Are you alright?” she asks quietly from where she sits across from him on the settee. She looks more worn than he has ever seen her, wonders what he must look like to her as well.

“No,” he answers honestly.

They fall into a heavy silence. He knows Dis must have a million questions, some that he does not want to answer. He’s already vowed to himself not to tell her of how Thorin succumbed to the gold-sickness in the end, of how Fili laid helpless and breathless as his wounds killed him, of how Kili died cold and alone on an unforgiving battlefield that he, by all rights, should never have been on.

“I suppose,” she murmurs a while later, “that I’ll have quite a large party to greet me in the Halls of Waiting some day.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He knows how strong Dis is, has seen her put aside her grief and live on, knows that she is only trying to put forth a brave front for him. He doesn’t want her to, not for him. Not when he failed her thrice.

His emotions must have shown clearly on his face. “You are not to blame for this, Dwalin,” she murmurs.

“I vowed to protect your sons. To you and Thorin both,” he protests, voice thick with emotion he wouldn’t dare show to anyone else, save for his brother. “I promised to bring them home.”

A small, regretful smile flickers across her face. “But they are home, aren’t they?” Her smile widens just slightly. “What did they think of it? Erebor.”

“Kili hated it,” he confessed, a sad smile of his own coming to his face a Dis chuckled lightly. “Though, to his credit, we were trapped in the dark with a dragon for a while.”

Their conversation shifts to how the dragon was slayed, happier times they’d shared on the journey, but never to the battle. Never to the end.

And he is just fine with that, as much as it hurts him to think on Thorin and the boys. It brings some light back into Dis’ eyes, gives her new memories to hold on to, and that is worth the price.

\-----

Nearly a week later, the caravans prepare to leave, to bring all of those wishing to return to their homeland back to Erebor. Dwalin had spent some time in the forest, hunting and thinking and wondering what he wanted to do.

He did not want to go back to Erebor, not now. He was perfectly content to return to the small house he and Balin had lived in for the last few decades, to return to Thorin’s halls and spend out his days there.

Yet, he did not want Dis to have to make the journey to Erebor alone. He’d already seen the sad eyes that turned to her the few times they had left the house. News had spread quickly about the fate of the line of Durin. While most dwarrows had been sympathetic and compassionate, offering up small meals (mostly coming from Bombur, who had returned with the caravans to fetch his wife and children) and gifts in consolation, some had been downright cruel, whispering of the curse of the line of Durin, claiming that Thorin had it coming, that they deserved what they’d gotten.

Only Dis’ hand on his arm had stopped him from showing those dwarrows just what he thought of those who were snide about the deaths of his kinsmen.

He did not know what Dis planned to do; they had not spoken on it. He wagered that if she wanted to return to Erebor he would ride with her, the return to Ered Luin on foot by himself after.

He couldn’t bear to go back. Dain would have the tombs finished by the time he did, would hold a proper funeral for them, and, as strong a warrior as he was, he could not and would not shoulder that pain. But, he wouldn’t leave Dis to face the long journey on her own.

When he returns to the house, he finds Dis staring blankly into the dish basin, hands submerged but still in the soapy water. The clearing of his throat startles her out of her daze, and she offers him a small smile in greeting.

“Caught some rabbits for you,” he says, showing her the string of small animals he’d managed to get, distracted as he’d been in the forest.

“You’ve been very kind to me, Dwalin,” she murmurs as she nods her thanks. “I don’t suppose I would have done so well on my own this week without your help.” She is looking better, more color has returned to her face and she’s started to manage some of her household chores. Grief still clings to her, from the tightness around her eyes and mouth to the ways she hunches her shoulders; it is clear that she is still in mourning.

He takes a dishrag and starts to dry as she hands him the cleaned dishes. “The caravans will leave in a few days,” he murmurs. “Have you thought on whether or not you will join them?”

Her hands still in their work for just a moment. She clears her throat before returning to scrubbing, just a tad more aggressively than before. “I can’t imagine there’s anything left for me there,” she murmurs, voice tight.

“It was your home, your rightful kingdom,” he offers, not sure why he wants to press her on this when he knows full well that he has nothing left their either and can empathize with her completely.

“You’re right,” she concedes. “It was. You forget, Dwalin, I was only ten when the dragon came. The most I remember of Erebor is Grandda sitting on his throne, the Arkenstone above him the day after they’d found it.” She sighs again. “Most of my life has been spent here. This is my home now. Even if my boys-“ She choked quietly on a sob, cleared her through again before continuing. “Even if my boys are not here with me anymore, this is still my home. My true home.”

He nods in understanding. “I don’t intend to return either,” he offers quietly. They fall into silence once more as they finish their task, and he feels as though a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

Once they’ve finished, he reaches into one of his pouches. He grabs her hand and deposits two small seeds into her palm. She looks up at him, confusion clear in her eyes.

“White Ash,” he explains. “There’s a bunch of them in the forest. Kili loved to climb them to hurt, whether he was hunting for food or for poor unsuspecting fools like myself to play pranks. Fili loved how orange they turn in the fall.”

Her eyes have misted over slightly with tears and she turns up a grateful smile at him. “I think they’d prefer this over any old dusty tomb,” she murmurs. “Thank you, Dwalin.”

“I’d have found one for Thorin too but…” he chuckled lightly. “We know his thoughts on trees.”

At that she really did laugh, one that sounded a lot like her old self, and it lifted Dwalin’s heart greatly. “Come on then,” she urged as she tugged on his arm, pulled him back through the garden with an eagerness he hadn’t seen in her in years.

\-----

Years later, when he was old and Dis had passed, after Balin and Ori had perished in Moria, after Bombur and his family had returned to Ered Luin and he’d named his old friend’s son as heir to Thorin’s Halls, and Gloin’s son Gimli had gone on a quest to save all of Middle Earth with Gandalf, men, the elven prince of Mirkwood, and some hobbits, of all creatures, he still smiled every time he passed that old house.

A new family had moved in, their front garden arranged so differently from the way Dis had managed it all of those years, one with two little boys (one brown of hair and the other blond) who he frequently saw climbing through the branches of the three impressive trees that towered over the small dwelling, wide smiles on their faces as they told stories of great battles, of the Battle of the Five Armies and of Fili and Kili, the brave princes of Erebor.

And when it came time for him to depart to his next great adventure, as one of the oldest and most respectable dwarrows known to Middle Earth, he was indeed greeted in the Halls of Waiting with open arms and smiling faces by all those he had lost.

They were all at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this little break from Greater than Gold! As always, let me know what you think. You lovelies are wonderful!


	3. Oak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am thoroughly convinced that PJ read this fic and tossed in that acorn bit just to KILL me. Even though I felt like this story was complete, I think that bit of BotFA demands an extra chapter. So…here it is…one more heaping spoonful of angst involving trees and grieving.
> 
> I still own nothing. Enjoy!
> 
> Warnings: Canonical character deaths, angst. BATTLE OF THE FIVE ARMIES FEELS AHEAD. Unbetaed writing (as always).

The journey _home_ was nothing like the journey _there_.

The journey _there_ was full of excitement, of thirteen uproarious dwarves with wild senses of humor that infuriated him as often as they made him laugh. It was full of danger, and adventure, but the camaraderie he shared with his companions was all of the protection that he’d needed. Toward the end, it was full of uncertainty and doubt and fear, before everything was blanketed in overwhelming, suffocating sadness.

The journey _home_ was quiet and lonely and sad. He and Gandalf encountered no trouble of the long road back, and they spoke little. He knew that the wizard was just as fraught about… _that_ as Bilbo had been. And slowly, the mountains faded into the forest, the forest bled into the plains, and the plains curved into the rolling, gentle hills of the Shire.

It is home, but it feels somehow foreign now.

Gandalf was right; he is _not_ the same. Gone is the Bilbo Baggins of old, who poured over his maps and books and imagined what the world outside the shire was like. Now he _knew_...and he was not quite sure if he was glad for the experience or not. Not yet, at least.

The halls of Bag End are empty, and the very sound of his feet pattering along the floor echo off the walls. It reminds him or Erebor, and he thinks he can hear the echoed whispers of Thorin’s madness, the quiet pleading of his loved ones for him to return to himself. He shakes his head, as if to clear the voices away, and retreats instead to his garden.

Before he does, he takes the acorn from his pocket and sets it on the mantle. It hurts more to think on than he would like, so for now he resolves to leave it be.

He spends a great deal of his days outside, tending to his plants that had been left neglected for so long. Some of the beds were completely overgrown, and he busies himself with returning the garden to its former glory. Most nights he sleeps under the stars, so long as the weather allows, and imagines the twinkling stars as fireflies instead.

Slowly, the people of Hobbiton return his belongings to him (save for Lobelia, but he expected no less from her anyway). The interior of Bag End returns to its former glory and everything finds its place once more. It takes a year or so, but by the end of it, he almost feels as though he is home.

But then his eyes catch on the acorn, still sitting innocently on the mantle, and his thoughts drift to Thorin, and Fíli and Kíli, who fought so hard for _their_ home but did not live long enough to enjoy it. He weeps that night, well and truly _weeps_ in a way that he hasn’t since Ravenhill, and falls asleep curled in his armchair.

He dreams of Fíli and Kíli and their infectious smiles, and of Thorin’s eventual, yet unwavering, friendship.

The next day he finds himself back in his garden, sifting through his pots and planters until he finds a suitable one. Fittingly, it is blue ( _Durin_ blue). He fills it with the best soil from his garden, fertilizes it with the compost he’d collected over the last year, before bringing it inside the house and setting it in front of the large window in the parlor. Finally, he retrieves the acorn, soaking it in a bowl of water for a while, before burying it into the soil.

A few days later, when it sprouts, he feels the weight on his heart lessen.

He keeps it in the pot for several years, letting the tree grow into a strong sapling, before he takes it outside. He finds the perfect place for it, just to the left of his home, where there is plenty of sunlight for the tree to grow and flourish. The day he transplants the tree, he is a nervous wreck. He worries about squirrels or rodents snacking on the tree’s fledgling limbs, or that the roots won’t take, or that a swift, strong storm will uproot the tree and blow it away.

He won’t admit it to himself, but he fears the losing the tree will feel like losing Thorin all over again.

But his worries turn out to be unfounded. The tree takes, and years later it is well on its way to becoming strong, sturdy oak, one that already braches out over his home like a protective curtain. He takes to spending his days under the growing tree, his back propped against its trunk, reading his books and writing his own about his adventures.

Some days, he talks to the tree, and it almost feels like he is speaking with Thorin again. He wonders if the dwarf can hear him from the undying lands, and the pain in his heart fades to a dull ache, still present but no longer overbearing.

He is sitting under the oak tree one afternoon, writing descriptions of the members of Thorin’s company for his book, when he has an unexpected but most welcome visitor stops by. Dwalin spies him under the tree, and the smile the warrior gives him is warm and understanding.

“I planted trees for the lads in their mum’s garden,” he says, joining Bilbo under the oak’s branches. “I had not thought that Thorin,” his voice catches slightly on the name, as though he had not uttered it in a long while, “would appreciate such a gesture, but this,” he murmurs, reaching out to run a hand along the rough bark. “This would suit him.”

Bilbo smiles gratefully, glad that Thorin’s oldest friend seems to approve of his gesture. “He told me to plant my trees,” he muses quietly.

Dwalin laughs. “And you were always so good at doing just as he said.”

He cannot help but laugh as well.

One by one, other dwarves visit as well. Bombur comes with his entire family, and the laughter of little dwarflings fills his home for days. Dori, Nori, and Ori come to stay for a spell, and it warms his heart to see how the brothers have come into their own (though Dori is still a bit over-motherly). Balin visits several times as he travels to visit his brother, who has taken up Thorin’s old position in the Blue Mountains. Bofur visits and charms the pants off of every child in the shire, including his baby nephew Frodo, with his riveting, comical stories and handcrafted toys.

Bifur does not come to visit, nor do Oin and Gloin, but he does not blame them. He hadn’t grown particularly close to them, though Oin does occasionally write to him to keep him updated on what was going on in Erebor. Sometimes, Bilbo dreams of traveling to the Lonely Mountain once more, but he never follows through.

It is a cold winter morning when a distant relation shows up on his doorstep with a young Frodo and tells him of the passing of the lad’s parents, and it is without a second thought that Bilbo adopts him and takes the lad in as his own (perhaps because he’d seen how much love could be shared between an uncle and the nephews he’d raised). He always liked Frodo the most of his kin – he had a spirit of adventure, and was one of the only ones who found Bilbo’s stories fascinating instead of preposterous.

In time, he knows he will tell the lad the story of the oak tree, of Thorin Oakenshield and the quest to reclaim Erebor, of Fíli and Kíli, the fine and noble princes, of Dwalin the warrior, and Bofur the toymaker, and all of the other souls he had come to know on his journey. For now, Bilbo simply takes joy in the fact that the lad enjoys spending time under its branches as much as he does.

And in the end, when he leaves the Shire and Frodo sets off on an adventure all his own, he hopes that he will one day be reunited with his thirteen friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Bit of a different one from me, but I hope you enjoyment it nonetheless. Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!


End file.
